Siheyuan (traditional courtyard house): Starting with the Korean War, returning home to take charge

The two hilltops of Shangganling seemed to have been thrown into a relentless meat grinder. By day, enemy artillery and infantry surged onto the surface positions like a tidal wave, blasting every inch of soil and planting their flags. At night, our soldiers would crawl out of those bottomless tunnels, as deep as the entrails of a giant beast, and use grenades, bayonets, and even their teeth to tear down the flags and reclaim the lost trenches inch by inch. After dawn, the cycle would repeat itself.

He Yuzhu's regiment had become "scraps" to be fed into the side feed inlet of the meat grinder. Although it was not the main direction of attack, the torment was even greater. The orders from the division headquarters became more and more urgent, and the tone became more and more forceful. The core message was the same: at all costs, transport personnel, ammunition, food, medicine and water to the Shangganling tunnels.

"At all costs"—these five words may seem light on paper, but when they weigh on the heads of specific individuals, they are as heavy as a mountain of blood.

The transport convoy became a expendable resource. Daytime movement was impossible; enemy aircraft and artillery fire blocked every ridge and ravine leading to the high ground. Only at night, led by veterans familiar with the terrain, could they carry supplies on their backs and shoulders, inching their way towards the tunnel entrances like ants. The roads were no longer roads; they were scorched earth repeatedly plowed by artillery fire, death zones where snipers from both sides stared at each other, and gateways to hell where one could trigger a landmine or become a conspicuous target in the light of flares.

What were they transporting? Radishes, apples, fried noodles, water, grenades, bullets, and the most precious medicine. How much could they send up? If 30% of the supplies reached the tunnel entrance, that would be incredibly lucky. More often than not, a transport team that set out with dozens of people would return with only a handful, all wounded. The news they brought back was even more chilling: inside the tunnels, wounded soldiers were everywhere, lacking medical care and medicine, their wounds festering and infested with maggots; when water was scarce, they could only lick the damp, gunpowder-smelling stains on the stone walls, or even collect their own urine; the air was so polluted that even striking a match was difficult; the bodies of the fallen could not be transported back and could only be temporarily placed in a side cave deep within the tunnel.

In the regimental command post, He Yuzhu stared at the numb faces of the surviving transport team members, listening to the fragments of information they brought back from the brink of death. His back teeth ached from clenching them. He knew the tunnels were hell, but he never imagined they would be a hell where flesh was cut with a dull knife and every drop of blood was slowly boiled away.

Relying solely on allocations from higher authorities would be insufficient. He had to utilize every means at his disposal.

Consciousness sinks into the system. Points: 6,688,398. At this moment, these points are not for exchanging for guns and cannons, but for saving one's life.

[Redeem: 50,000 Vitamin C tablets (simple packaging), -20,000 points.]

[Redeem: 10,000 packets of High-Efficiency Hemostatic Powder (Sulfonamide Complex), -30,000 points.]

[Redeem: 5,000 sachets of oral rehydration salts, -10,000 points.]

[Redeem: 2,000 simple gas mask activated carbon filter cartridges, -40,000 points.]

A total of 100,000 points have been deducted, leaving 6,588,398 points.

These supplies were mixed in with the normally distributed radishes and ammunition, and stuffed into the backpacks of each transport team member or tied to a carrying pole under the guise of "emergency special supply from the division's logistics department." He Yuzhu personally inspected several backpacks, pressing the inconspicuous small medicine packets and filters to the bottom, patted the transport team leader on the shoulder, and said nothing. The team leader's eyes suddenly reddened, and he nodded heavily.

Having supplies wasn't enough; the people in the tunnels needed to know how to survive in dire circumstances. He Yuzhu summoned veterans who had experienced long-term tunnel warfare and the last remaining military doctor in the group, dictating the key points. The clerk then worked through the night to copy dozens of copies of "Ten Dos and Don'ts for Tunnel Survival." The words were rough, but every word was imbued with blood:

"Take turns going to the tunnel entrance to breathe, and never expose your head; collect urine and filter it with cloth for emergency use; pay attention to the dampness on the stone walls and quench your thirst slowly; turn the seriously wounded over regularly; move the bodies of the martyrs to a side tunnel away from the living and sprinkle lime if possible; conserve every drop of water and every bite of food; take turns resting, even if you can only close your eyes for ten minutes..."

"Do not drink unknown liquids; do not make noise or reveal your location; do not litter and attract rats and flies; do not abandon the wounded..."

These scraps of paper, stained with oil and riddled with misspellings, were sent into the tunnel along with the supplies. He Yuzhu hoped they would save more lives than bullets.

In the dead of night, a transport team led personally by Old Wang, the head of the logistics department, set off. More than twenty men, carrying the most urgently needed medicines and several water bottles—filled with radish soup prepared by the logistics department itself—quietly made their way towards the most critical No. 1 main tunnel on Hill 597.9. He Yuzhu stood in the shadows outside the command post, watching their silent figures disappear at the end of the rugged mountain road, his heart heavy with anxiety.

At four in the morning, when the sky was darkest, a sudden, dense roar erupted in the distance, and flames tore through the night sky. He Yuzhu's heart sank. Shortly afterward, a soldier covered in blood, his face almost unrecognizable, stumbled back to the regimental headquarters' perimeter—the transport team's only survivor.

"Commander... Director Wang and the others... when they were crossing the mountain ridge... they encountered a premeditated artillery barrage..." The soldier stammered, his pupils dilated. "The flares were as bright as day... the shells were chasing after people and exploding... everyone was gone... except me... who rolled into a crevice in the rocks..."

He Yuzhu stood there, his limbs ice-cold. The medicine, the water, and even Old Wang's dark face—the same face that always argued with the division's logistics over a pound of pickled vegetables—had all vanished. The wounded awaiting rescue in Tunnel No. 1 would face yet another wave of despair.

The command post was deathly silent. Chief of Staff Geng slammed his fist against the earthen wall, the dull thud echoing. Political Commissar Zhao closed his eyes, his lips trembling.

He Yuzhu suddenly turned around and began to put on his equipment: a pistol, a magazine, two grenades, and a first aid kit.

"Commander? Where are you going?" Old Geng grabbed him.

"Wait for medicine in Tunnel No. 1." He Yuzhu's voice was dry. "I'll take the regiment's direct guard platoon there."

"Are you insane!" Old Geng roared. "That's the focus of fire right there! Are you going to your death?"

"So we just watch them die of thirst, rot in there?" He Yuzhu shook off his hand, his eyes burning with fury in the dim light. "I'm the regimental commander. Some paths we must lead the way. Guard platoon, assemble! Take the last of the regimental headquarters' spare medicine and all the water bottles!"

There were no rousing slogans, only cold, resolute decisions. The thirty-odd soldiers of the guard platoon remained silent, checking their weapons and carrying supplies. He Yuzhu led the way, emerging from the command post and disappearing into the thick night and lingering smoke.

The road was paved with death. Flares flashed intermittently, illuminating the jagged shell craters and twisted tree roots in a ghastly white light. They had to sprint through the gaps between flashes, ducking into shell craters to avoid the sudden hail of machine gun fire. Shells exploded near and far, the shockwaves feeling as if their internal organs had shifted. He Yuzhu hunched over, gripping his submachine gun tightly, his eyes fixed on the dark outline ahead, his ears catching every unusual sound. The map and route were already etched into his mind, but every step he took felt like walking on a knife's edge.

After countless falls and dodging several bursts of gunfire, they finally reached the rocky slope on the other side of Hill 597.9. The entrance to Tunnel No. 1 was well-camouflaged, but as they approached, the stench of blood, pus, and excrement began to waft out.

He Yuzhu left most of the troops on guard duty and personally led two soldiers to carry medicine and water bottles, climbing to the entrance of the tunnel. The low entrance was pitch black, with suppressed groans and coughs coming from intermittently.

"Comrade inside! This is He Weiguo! I've brought the medicine!" he called out in a low voice.

A rustling sound rang out, and several dark figures appeared at the cave entrance. Their sunken, bloodshot eyes gleamed eerily in the darkness, revealing a wild, animalistic thirst and a deathly numbness. Their hands trembled uncontrollably as they took the medicine and water bottle.

A hoarse, almost unrecognizable voice managed to squeeze out: "Captain... water..."

He Yuzhu handed over the last pot of radish soup he had on him. Watching the wounded take turns sipping it like a sacred object, letting out satisfied yet painful whimpers, he suddenly felt that all tactics, commands, and even system points had become weightless and insignificant at this moment. Humanity was as insignificant as dust in the face of absolute material destruction and survival exploitation.

He didn't enter the tunnel—there was no place for him inside, nor any view he should have to face. Leaving behind medicine and water, he led his men back to the regimental headquarters in silence along a more treacherous route.

The eastern horizon was beginning to lighten. A new day of slaughter was about to begin. Meanwhile, inside the tunnels, the line between life and death continued its endless torment in the endless darkness and stench.